Between Moose Jaw and Saskatoon, Harry had certainly seen stretches that seemed to bear out the jibe, but as he left the Battlefords behind and drove the laden cart along the almost deserted dirt road towards Cut Knife, he was pleased to see mature stands of trees and then even a hill or two. It wasn’t exactly Derbyshire, he told himself, but neither was it Norfolk. Compared to the area around the Jørgensens, however, it was astonishingly empty of people. He passed no more than four other carts on the road all day. Much of the land had not yet been cultivated, and he seemed to see more Indians – Cree, as he had just learnt these were – than Europeans on his way. He was worried his new horses would become overly tired, having no idea how fit they were. He found a stream where they could have a long drink and a rest while he ate some lunch and drank a rashly celebratory bottle of warm beer. Safe from any man’s satirical gaze, he spent some time talking to them and rubbing their faces and wondering what he should call them.
